


broken hearts, matching scars

by 2AMscribbles



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2AMscribbles/pseuds/2AMscribbles
Summary: Anastasia had left with her grandmother to Paris, and thus narrowly avoided the murder of her family during the Russian revolution. Years later, after the Dowager Empress has passed, Dmitry is sent to Paris with one mission: to assassinate the last remaining Romanov.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry & Vlad Popov, Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

Dmitry shifted on the stone steps, feeling the Parisian sun burning the back of his exposed neck. Despite the summer heat, the lawn of the Romanov mansion was almost insultingly green, flowers and ivy sprawling up the grand stone walls. Running a hand through his dampening hair, he squinted into the windows, attempting to make out figures in the darkened rooms. Swearing under his breath, he raised his knuckles to rap impatiently at the door again, cutting himself short as the door swung open. 

_ “Bonjour.” _ A man Dmitry assumed was the butler stood in the entryway, looking incredibly bored as he stared dully at Dmitry, his white moustache quivering like caterpillars above his lips as he spoke. 

_ “Bonjour.” _ Dmitry worked out, waiting awkwardly until the butler finally sighed, stepping aside to allow Dmitry inside the house. It was more like a palace, Dmitry couldn’t help from thinking, unable to keep himself from gaping in wonder as he entered the foyer, gazing up at the gilded ceiling and paintings that adorned the walls. 

Moustache Man turned, saying something in French Dmitry supposed was ‘stay here,’ not waiting (or expecting) Dmitry’s answer as he exited the room through one of the many doors. 

Alone, Dmitry felt his heartbeat quicken; suddenly conscious of every weapon concealed in his bags as he set them gingerly on the floor, wincing in the effort to not somehow scratch the pristine tile.

Opting to study a painting, Dmitry jumped as incessant barking came from an open door to his right, echoing throughout the room. Looking through the open doorway, Dmitry saw a young woman on her knees, lunging after a small gray dog with a black slipper in its mouth.

“Pooka!” The woman let out a string of curses in Russian, her black mourning dress looking quite rumpled as she caught the dog, pulling the chewed slipper from its mouth and shoving it back on her bare foot. 

Dmitry caught his breath. There she was. His target. 

He had heard a lot about the famous Anastasia Romanov, of how she had went with her Grandmother to Paris a week before the Romanov family was overthrown and executed, of how she had grown up in Paris, her upbringing little altered; complete with fancy parties and glittering presents and high-class guests alike. He didn’t know what to expect when he met her, but it was certainly not with her sprawled across the floor, her strawberry blonde hair escaping it’s careful chignon, falling across her face and neck as she glared at her pet, scrunching her features as the dog licked at her nose, almost in an apology for stealing her shoe. 

Anastasia sat back, flicking her hair out of her face. She gazed at the dog, a reluctant emotion overworking her features. Slowly, her shoulders started to shake, a hesitant laugh bubbling her chest, as if she had forgotten how. Soon, the joyful sound bounced throughout the empty room, her giddiness colliding with the mournful spell as she picked up her dog and twirled, the black satin swishing around her legs. 

“Oh, Pooka, whatever are we going to do with you?” Anastasia sighed, stopping as her gaze landed on Dmitry in the doorway. “Oh.” She blushed scarlet, setting the dog on the floor, hastily righting her dress and hair.  _ “ _ _ Excusez-moi.” _

After a moment, Dmitry bowed,  _ “Mademoiselle, je suis Dmitry Sudayev.”  _ His French caught at his teeth, stumbling out of his mouth awkwardly. Anastasia smiled warmly, gesturing for him to enter.

“Wonderful to meet you, Dmitry. I’m Anastasia, the Grand Duchess.” She responded in Russian, sweeping a royal curtsey, extending her hand as Dmity stepped forward. He clasped her delicate fingers, once again bowing his head. When he looked up, Dmitry wondered how he could have ever doubted she was the Grand Duchess, her royal blood evident in her sapphire eyes as she gazed at him with her nose slightly upturned, her thin lips poised in a regal smirk. 

“How did you know?” He asked, slightly embarrassed. 

Anastasia responded with a genuine smile, the gesture regulating the same joy she had when she laughed. “Dmitry Sudayev?” She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t find many of those in France, and I’m afraid your accent could use some work.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” Anastasia turned, walking deeper into the room, and Dmitry hesitantly followed, hovering by an armchair. “French may be the language of love, but Russian is my mother tongue, and it’s refreshing to hear it being spoken again. I’m afraid the servants only know French - or their Russian is very poor, and now there’s no one I can practice it with.” She halted by the window, and the sunlight caught on her askew hair, setting it alight in a golden halo. Her hands fluttered around a bouquet, tracing the petals softly. Mourning flowers. 

Dmitry inwardly cursed, mentally smacking his forehead. “I should have brought flowers - I’m sorry.”

“Please, you’re the one visitor that hasn’t showered me in orchids and chrysanthemums.” Her reassuring smile saddened slightly. “I take it you’re here to pay respects in regards to Marie?”

“Yes, I’m afraid the people of Paris will miss her terribly.”

“You knew the Dowager Empress?”

“No,” He quickly recovered, halting excuses in his mouth, opting for the safe route of embellished truth. “But I know she was a great woman.”

“She was.” Anastasia’s voice was wistful, her eyes misting over with memories privy to her. “France has lost a charitable woman, and a gracious member of society. But I’ve lost my grandmother, and I’m afraid all the flowers in the world won’t bring her back, just clutter the tabletops.” Her nose scrunched in a slight chuckle, her tone conveying no awkwardness.

_ “Madamoiselle Anastasia!”  _ The butler appeared in the doorway, his moustache quaking as he spoke rapidly in French, lifting his foot every second syllable or so to alleviate the dog - Pooka? - from chewing on his laces. It looked almost like a grasshopper’s dance, and Dmitry struggled to swallow his laughter. 

He glanced at Anastasia as she responded, and he saw that while her brow was stitched in seriousness, her mouth tightened resolutely at the corners, as if she was fighting the urge to crack a smile. 

After the butler left, Dmitry let out a low whistle. “I’m afraid Monsieur Moustache Man is displeased of my presence. What, are we not chaperoned?” 

Anastasia looked shocked, and for a split second Dmitry wondered if he said anything wrong, but then she laughed, bright and clear, the sound once again lighting the room. “I’m afraid there is no pleasing  _ Paul Anouilh _ ,” she over-enunciated the name, rolling her right shoulder good naturally. “But he was Nana’s friend, and a good servant.” She strolled by him, slightly raising her arm, and etiquette took over as Dmitry offered his, her touch feather light on his forearm as they walked back out into the foyer. “I wouldn’t comment on his moustache if you favour your head, I hear his wife compliments it every night before bedtime, and he’s extremely proud of it.” 

Despite himself, Dmitry chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, are you travelling somewhere?” She inquired, seeing his suitcases still sitting beside a table.

“Just arrived in town, actually.” Thought over lines scrolled through Dmitry’s mind, planned sentences starting to flow from his mouth. “I’m a bit of a vagabond, you may say. Looking for a place I could call home. I’m on my way to look for a hotel.”

“Oh, don’t think of it!” Anastasia faced him, one hand still lightly resting on his arm. “The  _ Parisien Hôtels  _ may be grand, but we can treat you just as fine here, and for a much cheaper price.” 

“I couldn’t take advantage of your hospitality, not in your time of mourning.” Dmitry faked humility, her gracious spirit predicted. 

“Please, you’re the one person who hasn’t walked on eggshells around me since Nana passed. I’ll be hosting dinners throughout the month, and at the end I’ll be hosting a ball - a coronation of sorts; a ceremony crowning me the official heir to the Romanov title and fortune.” Though she said the words easily, almost heedless of their implications, Dmitry saw her countenance shift, apprehension akin to fear clouding her clear blue eyes. 

He smiled. He had already known about the dinners, already known about the ball. 

“There will be other Russian ex-royals,” Anastasia continued, as if he needed convincing of staying, “and-”

“Alright.” 

“Alright?” She looked taken aback.

“Well,” Dmitry scoffed, shrugging his shoulders humorously. “I imagine the company here is better than at any hotel.” - Anastasia giggled, blushing slightly - “And I think I could afford to spend a few weeks in a place like this,” he gestured vaguely to the surrounding grandeur. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all, it’ll be nice to have a friend.” 

“Friends? Your Highness, we’ve only just met.” He smiled flirtatiously.

“We have an entire month to find out.” She grinned back


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ahhhh it's finally up! it's a lot longer than the previous chapter, and I hope you all enjoy <3  
> 2\. I seem to have gotten myself into a continuity pickle from not translating the brief French conversations in chapter one. If you want, you might want to pull up Google Translate (it's unreliable I know but it's what I used) however I make the sentences pretty translatable in the story, and provide full translations at the end of the chapter!

The guest bedroom was presented to Dmitry with a flourish, golden sunlight filtering through the curtains, warm and inviting. The maid curtseyed before she left, her mousy eyes giving a bashful look before she closed the door, her doey gaze lingering on Dmitry as he dropped his bag at the end of the bed. Kicking off his shoes, he flopped backwards onto the bed, the duvet sinking under his weight. The silk sheets were mockingly soft under his calloused fingertips, reminding him of his dusty appearance.

Standing, Dmitry groaned, running a hand through his hair as he approached the old-fashioned mirror and basin. Stripping his suspenders and shirt, he splashed water on his face, gasping as the cold washed down his face and neck, relieving him of the heat that stuck to his skin in perspiration. Dmitry shook his head, droplets splattering the glass, his fingers combing his hair as he locked gazes with his reflection in the mirror. His own eyes stared back, determination darkening the brown depths. 

Forsaking his unwashed shirt, Dmitry pulled his suspenders over his bare shoulders, walking over to the open window. The summer sun was warm on his face, the evening breeze rustling through his hair, causing the curtains to dance and swirl around his ankles. The golden light cast a misty haze over his view, the garden beneath him vast in a maze of flowers. Beyond, the streets of Paris: the buildings reaching towards the incandescent sky as the streets hummed with evening activity. 

Unexpected homesickness clutched Dmitry, his heart constricting with longing for Russia. Sighing, he leaned against the windowpane, jumping as barking erupted from below. Looking down, Dmitry caught sight of the gray form of Pooka - did that dog ever shut up? - dash between the shrubbs, Anastasia walking slowly after him, heedless of his yapping as she trailed between the bushes, sitting on a nearby bench. Squinting, Dmitry saw the Grand Duchess’ shoulders start to shake. He stared, transfixed, as Anastasia’s hand came to cover her mouth, Pooka finally quieting to sit at her feet as his owner sobbed quietly. After a few minutes, she rose, her gloved hand serving as a handkerchief as she wiped her tears. Smoothing down imaginary rumples on her dress, she started towards the house, halting as a servant approached. The maid held up two similarly-coloured cloths, seemingly heedless of her mistress’ quiet grieving moments before. Without hesitating, Anastasia picked out a cloth, as if it was second nature. The servant left, and Anastasia walked forward again, halting as her eyes flickered up, locking with Dmitry’s. 

Aware of his shirtless appearance, Dmitry held her gaze for a few moments, a silent challenge of seeing who would falter first. He did; turning away from the window and deeper into the room, pacing. 

Anastasia was hurting. Mourning. Vulnerable. 

Looking around at the tapestried walls, he scoffed bitterly. She was also rich, the hairbrush on the basin alone enough to feed him for weeks if he pawned it. He picked up the brush, running his fingers thoughtfully over the adored handle. Shaking his head, Dmitry set it down. No, he was sent here for one purpose, and one purpose only. To slay the last remaining Romanov. 

He could do it right now. He could pick up the dagger that was concealed in his bag, walk down the stairs, and drive it into Anastasia’s heart. Her blood would flow, staining his hands. She would die, and at last the Russian patriarchy would perish, just as the revolution intended. 

_ No. _ Dmitry swore, pacing as he wildly tugged at his hair. No, he had to be careful. He only had one chance, and he had to do it right. For that, he’d have to strategize. 

A soft knock sounded on the door, and Dmitry growled, impatient at the interruption. Yanking it open, the same maid from before cowered under his imposing stature, blushing at the sight of his bare chest. 

_ “Sa grâce demande si tu serais assez gentille pour la rejoindre pour le dîner.” _ She stammered out, her gaze refusing to meet his eyes. 

Recognizing the word ‘dinner,’ Dmitry hesitated for a moment before nodding, shutting the door as the maid giggled uncontrollably. Reddening in embarrassment, he tugged on a (clean) shirt, taking a moment to comb his hair before heading down the stairs. If it weren’t for the bustle of servants, he would have lost his way in the winding hallways. Finally, he entered the dining room. 

Anastasia sat near the end of a long table, thoughtfully fiddling with her fork, only looking up when he awkwardly cleared this throat. “Dmitry!” She smiled warmly, standing as a servant pulled out a chair. Dmitry sat across from her. They both sat near the end, the head of the table to his right empty. Marie’s chair. 

As their food was served, Dmitry studied Anastasia thoughtfully. She showed no sign of her escape in the garden, or the knowledge that Dmitry had seen her, instead smiling in gratitude as the servants placed dishes before them: roast quail with a salad containing what looked like vegetables drowned in wine. 

They started to eat, nothing but the sound of silverware on fine china. 

“How do you find your room?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your room?” Anastasia raised an eyebrow, fork halfway to her mouth. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s very comfortable, thank you.” Dmitry chewed, wincing as the taste popped on his tongue like hard liquor. He took small bites, aware that his stomach would reject the fine food later if he wasn’t careful. 

“I’m sure you’ll appreciate our view of the gardens,” she continued nonchalantly, “and we’re happy to provide anything you need; blankets, towels, a spare shirt perhaps?”

Dmitry swallowed. They were speaking Russian, there was no need to be discreet for the servants’ sake. Anastasia’s tone held no note of malice, but a slight raise of her eyebrows presented a challenge, a test to see how he would react. 

He smiled. Two could play this game. “Yes, my room is very comfortable, and you’re already doing so much for me already, allowing me to stay here.” He gestured with his fork vaguely around the room. “I would love to be of any service in return, even if it is as small as lending you a handkerchief. I’d hate for you to sully your gloves.”

Witnessing the look on Anastasia’s face was sweeter than the meat: a look of icy shock, quickly melting into loud laughter, her diamond eyes glittering with amusement and gratitude. Dmitry chuckled along with her, marvelling at how different the Grand Duchess looked when she laughed. 

“I wouldn’t like to keep you up with boresome entertainment.” Anastasia said when they finished their meal, their plates being carried away as they walked towards the hall. “I’m sure you’re tired from your day’s journey, and you’ll want your rest.” 

“Wait-” Dmitry touched her arm lightly, hesitant. She turned to face him, and he momentarily forgot what he was going to say, the warm light giving her cheeks a faint blush. He shifted his feet. “I’m not sure I can find my way back to my room.” He admitted sheepishly. 

Anastasia opened her mouth - to call for a servant? - but seemed to think better than it, instead leading the way down the hall, her heels clicking on the tile. Dmitry fell into step beside her, a comfortable silence humming between them. 

“I did mean what I said, about providing anything you need.” Anastasia said as they reached the staircase that led to the guest wing. “Even the shirts; I’d hate for you to scare Marguerite into another fit of giggling oblivion.” She smirked teasingly. 

Dmitry smiled as well, turning to face her as they stopped at the foot of the railing. “I also meant what I said. I’m here to be of service, even if you need a handkerchief in times of trouble.” He grasped her gloved fingers, instinctively bowing his head in goodnight. Unlike any of the other royalty he had the misfortune of meeting, Anastasia didn’t make it seem like it was his duty to bow, didn’t make him feel as if he had to grovel.

Dmitry heard Anastasia gasp slightly, and looked up in time to see her eyes widen in wonder. “What’s wrong?” He asked as he stood upright, apprehension raising the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“Nothing,” Anastasia’s voice was whimsical, her eyes searching his. “Only . . . have we met before?” 

“I am sure, princess, I would remember if I met you.” It wasn’t a lie. He did meet her, long ago, and he did remember. He remembered it clear as day. 

Anastasia smiled at his response, though she didn’t seem fully convinced as Dmitry turned and went up the stairs, feeling the inquisitive burn of her gaze on his back. 

* * *

For the first time in years, Dmitry dreamt of Anastasia. When he awoke in the morning, the chirp of birds in the gardens outside the window mixed with her laughter, the blue of her eyes shifting with the golden sunlight behind his eyelids. Sleep clung to Dmitry’s conscious, reluctant to let go of its hold as he sat up, groaning as he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to cast the Grand Duchess from his mind. His interactions with her the day before had stirred his memories, bringing him back to a hot summer day in June, when he was in a crowd of thousands and looking at a parade travelling by. 

But that was long ago, and things had changed. Too many things. 

Splashing his face with cool water from the basin in an endeavor to wake up, Dmitry opened his suitcase, surprised at a folded note laying on top. Unfolding it, he quickly scanned the contents, tearing it up when he was done.  _ Dostoevsky. Parc Monceau. 9:00 AM.  _ Disgruntled that the note had been stuffed in there without his notice, Dmitry got dressed and unpacked, folding his few shirts and pants into the dresser drawers, till at last he stared at the bottom of his bag, empty save for two things. The knife was absurdly unassuming, a worn handle with gleaming steal protected with a worn rag. Dostoevsky’s  _ Crime and Punishment _ laid beside it, the cover worn and spine cracked with years of haphazard abuse. His fingers twitching, Dmitry grasped the knife, wrapping it safely into his right boot. Tucking the book under his arm, he walked downstairs and found his way to the dining room, surprised to find it empty. 

_ “Monsieur?”  _

Dmitry started, turning to find the same maid from the night before standing at his elbow, her shy demeanor contributing to her soft-spoken words.  _ “Mlle Anastasia est sortie, mais le petit-déjeuner est prêt pour vous.”  _

Dmitry hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut in an effort to translate the sentence. His week’s worth crash course in French clashed in his brain, melding together to decipher two facts: Anastasia was absent, but breakfast was ready for him. 

He glanced at his watch. 8:30. 

_ “Merci Marguerite, mais non.” _ Dmitry muttered, hastily leaving, not seeing Marguerite’s blushing surprise at his knowledge of her name. He stepped out into the street, pausing a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight and bustle of the city. It was easy to slip into the flow of people, keeping an eye on the street signs as he ducked and swerved around corners, nearly getting lost multiple times in the dizziness of life swarming around him. At 8:43, Dmitry found the  _ Parc Monceau.  _

He drifted through, searching for an empty bench. It wasn’t easy; children shrieked as they ran throughout the grass, aspiring artists painting blooming trees and bushes, and numerous couples strolled arm in arm along the pathways. At 8:51, he found an empty bench, crossing one leg over the other as he sat and opened his novel. Having read the book through on his journey to France, Dmitry skimmed over the first chapter, looking up every ten seconds or so on lookout for his Russian ally. 

At 9:02, a man sat down a couple of feet away from Dmitry, opening up his own copy of  _ Crime and Punishment.  _

“I have been invited to stay at the Romanov manor for the month.” Dmitry said after a few minutes, keeping his eyes fixed on his page. 

“Good.” The man said, himself not looking at Dmitry. “Is your target acquired?”

“It’s not that simple.” Dmitry hissed. “A stranger can’t show up one day and the Grand Duchess be found murdered next! I’ll be hanged by sunset.”

“I don’t care _ how _ you do it! Your father didn’t give his life to dismantling the Romanov’s tyranny for you to falter at the last moment.”

Dmitry ground his teeth, fury and indignation muffling his hearing. “She’s holding a ball at the end of the month,” he said after a few moments, “there will be lots of people there-”

“Good. Do it by then.” The man snapped his book shut, standing. “And Dmitry, should you fail, there are plenty of others who are proud to take your place, and they’ll no longer just have one target to eliminate.” 

Dmitry breathed hard, silently simmering long after his associate left. Finally, he stood, running a hand bitterly through his hair, striding resolutely out of the park. They didn’t know what he was capable of; didn’t know how loud his father’s words rang in Dmitry’s ears as he volunteered to kill Anastasia Romanov, once and for all. 

A well-recognized bark caught his attention, and he turned in time to see the gray form of Pooka make a beeline straight for him, stopping at his feet to paw at his pant leg in want of pets. 

“Pooka!” Dmitry heard Anastasia call, looking up to see her round the corner. To his amazement, she wasn’t wearing mourning clothes. Instead, a pale blue dress hugged her figure, a yellow sash accenting her small waist, a black ribbon tied to her hat the only clue of her loss as she approached, the brim casting her features in partial shade. 

“Dmitry!” Anastasia wore bright red lipstick, making her smile seem wider and whiter than ever as she bent down to reattach Pooka’s leash. “I didn’t know I’d find you here.”

“Nor I you.” He found his voice, gesturing vaguely to the park around them. “Thought I’d get in some sightseeing.” 

“Let me walk you home, it can be a bit of a maze back to the house. Did Marguerite let you know about breakfast?” She took his arm, and they strolled along the path, another nameless couple amongst the crowd. 

“Yes, though I’m afraid I haven’t eaten yet.” 

Anastasia gasped, looking up at him in excitement. “There are dozens of cafes all in this area! We can find one and eat there.” She didn’t listen to his objections as they excited the park, slipping her way through the crowds, hugging close to his side so as to not lose him as she weaved down a narrow alleyway that opened up to a quieter neighbourhood, pastel apartments overlooking shops and cafes on the street below. 

In no time at all, Anastasia found a breakfast cafe, tying Pooka’s leash to the legs of a chair as she sat at a table for two. Shaking his head in disbelief, Dmitry sat across from her, taking in the sight of the Parisian street. The neighbourhood was quieter, too narrow for cars as people strolled along the cobblestone walk, venduers calling out to sell their knicknacks as buskers strumming their French folktales. 

A waiter soon arrived, and Anastasia translated the menu to Dmitry, ordering for both of them. “The  _ Cup of Stars Cafe  _ is one of my favourites,” Anastasia took off her hat, wisps of auburn trailing across her forehead as she rested her chin on the back of her hand. “Me and Nana used to come here all the time, just sit here and people watch.” She murmured wistfully, gazing at the trails of people walking past. 

“You must miss her very much.” 

“I do, and I don't.” Anastasia sighed. “Her health had been troubling her for a few years now, and it comforts me to know she’s finally at peace. But she was also my last remaining family, and now . . .” she hesitated, finger idly trailing the tabletop, “now I alone bear the Romanov name. I am the only one left.” She looked up, and Dmitry saw a crack in her air of grace and dignity; a fracture in the societal status she was placed in that prevented her from mourning the death of her last remaining family. Without thinking, Dmitry reached across the table and held her hand, her shaking palm stilling in his grasp. 

She stared at their entwined hands. “I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t-”

“I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” He cut in. “My father.”

Anastasia looked up, and Dmitry held her gaze, her azure depths shining. His thumb hovered over her knuckles, an unspoken conversation crackling from skin to skin. 

Their food arrived, and Dmitry withdrew his hand, running it through his hair and clearing his throat. They started to eat quietly, Anastasia slipping bits of her breakfast to Pooka sitting at her feet. 

“He died when I was just little, but I remember him well.” Dmitry said after a mouthful of food, looking out at the surrounding street as warring truths battled on his tongue. His father’s kindness to the fellow commoners of Petersburg, or his father’s passionate hatred to the imperial government? He shook his head. “There was a view in Petersburg, by the Neva,” he leaned forward, positive memories warming his voice. “He would take me to the bridge at sunset, put me on his shoulders and say ‘bet you can see all the way to Finland from up there, Dima!’” Dmitry mimicked, deepening his voice similar to his father’s.

“Dima?” Anastasia’s eyes twinkled, her lips pursing as she tried to keep in a smirk. 

“That’s what he called me!” 

She laughed. “I haven’t had a nickname for years.” 

“No? Nothing but  _ your grace _ and  _ princess _ since your cradle?”

Her nose scrunched. “Olya and Masha used to call me Nastya, but that was usually when they wanted me to help play tricks on Tatiana.” 

“So I have nothing to call you besides ‘Princess Anastasia?’” 

“No, please! I hear nothing but that every day.”

Dmitry chewed thoughtfully as he looked at her, tapping his fingers. Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanov. Sole surviving daughter of Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov, Tsar and Tsarina of Imperial Russia. Large titles, heavy titles. Dmitry saw them whirl around Anastasia, how they bore her down. Years of whispers and long looks straightening her back, raising her chin, glaring in defiance against the blood that accompanied her name. 

“What about ‘Anya?’”

“Anya?” She tested it on her tongue, mulling it over, smiling. “Sure.”

“Well then,  _ Anya, _ tell me. What brought you to the  _ Parc Monceau _ at such an ungodly hour?” Dmitry smiled. The nickname suited her, giving a girlish spunk to the tilt of her chin, a tone of light freedom as she smirked at his question. 

“Well,  _ Dmitry, _ taking Pooka for his walks gives me a good excuse to get out of the house, I know it’s grand, but sometimes I just feel so . . .”

“Confined.” 

“Yeah. What about you?” She asked after a beat, waving her fork vaguely. “I mean, I’m sure I can show you more exciting places in Paris than a local park.” 

“I thought I’d get in some light reading.” 

“You’re a  _ Doseteovetsky _ fan?” Anya’s eyes glittered as she glanced at his book laying on the table. 

“Of course, he writes about life.” Dmitry’s eyes widened teasingly. “Please don’t tell me you prefer  _ Tolstoy _ .”

She gasped, offended. “ _ Tolstoy _ is a revolutionary!”

“He’s a romantic!”

“An optimist!”

“Depressing!”

“Oh, and  _ Crime and Punishment  _ isn’t?”

Dmitry rolled his eyes, raising his hands in defeat. Anya smirked victoriously, and he looked at her thoughtfully, a question rising on his tongue. Why did she allow him to stay with her? As for her memories, they had never met before; complete strangers. But he bit back the question, seeing the answer in the way she looked at him with a shine of hesitant trust. They were the same. Young. Russian. Alone. He supposed that was why it was easy to talk with her, their difference in societal difference dissolving as they talked so similarly about the things they loved, the things they disagreed on. 

They continued chatting as they finished their breakfast, only leaving when the place began filling with customers looking for an empty table. Anya paid the bill before they left, 

casually fingering out bills from her snap purse, heedless of the waiter’s bulging eyes as she handed him a cluster of coins Dmitry guessed was a generous tip.

They walked down the street, Dmitry wondering what the rest of the day held. “I suppose a Grand Duchess has commitments?”

“I’m afraid I do.” Anya sighed. “That’s why I came out this morning, to get a breath of fresh air before I was locked in meetings and brunches.” She gasped, hand tightening on his arm. “What time is it?!”

Dmitry showed her his watch. 10:21. 

“I’m gonna be late!” Anya shouted, grabbing his hand. Holding her hat to her head, she rushed through the streets, her heels clacking on the cobblestones as Dmitry and Pooka struggled to keep up. “I have a meeting with Nanna’s lawyer to officially go over her will, I’m supposed to have brunch with him at 10:30!” Passerbys gave them strange looks as they dashed across corners, finally nearing the Romanov manor. Anya slowed, gasping for breath as Dmitry opened the door, grateful for the air conditioning as they collapsed into the foyer. 

“I suppose that was Paris: Speed Edition?” Dmitry coughed out a laugh, hands on his knees as a cramp started to form in his lower left rib.

“I am so sorry,” Anya apologized between pants of breathless laughter, “I promise next time I take you sightseeing in Paris I won’t drag you through the streets.”

“I will hold you to that.” 

“I’ll show you the Neva Club, and the Louvre, and there’s this bridge that’s named after my grandfather, and so much more!” Anya promised as she took off her hat, her hair wild from the run. 

“ _ Madamoiselle Anastasia!” _

Dmitry and Anya whirled around to see the butler, Paul Anouilh himself standing in the doorway, looking very frantic and displeased at their frazzled arrival. He prattled off in rapid French, no doubt chastising Dmitry for causing the Grand Duchess to be late. Dmitry sneaked a glance at Anya, and she had the decency to look admonished, though he could see a smile that could not help playing at the corners of her mouth. 

“I have to go,” she turned to him, puffing her cheeks in an exasperated air. “How do I look?”

“I would take a brush to the nest you call hair first,” Dmitry looked her up and down, the statement coming out more tender than he meant it to as he reached out to brush aside a rebel strand of hair that had caught in her lipstick. 

“Yes, of course.” 

A heartbeat’s worth of silence passed between them. 

“Go!” Dmitry shooed her along, “Go and impress that lawyer!”

Anya laughed as left, closing the door behind her.

Dmitry sighed, alone in the entryway as Pooka barked at his ankles for attention. As he bent down, his right ankle hurt sharply, and it was then that Dmitry remembered the knife concealed there. 

“Well, Pooka.” he sighed, the dog licking his fingers excitedly. “My _ target  _ seems to be more lively than I thought.” The words were sour in his mouth, a bitterness settling in his chest, next to his rapidly beating heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. “Sa grâce demande si tu serais assez gentille pour la rejoindre pour le dîner.” = her grace asks if you would be kind enough to join her for dinner
> 
> 2\. “Mlle Anastasia est sortie, mais le petit-déjeuner est prêt pour vous.” = Miss Anastasia has gone out, but breakfast is ready for you
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I have not read Crime and Punishment, or Anna Karenina. To any of my Russian literature fans, I apologize if necessary


End file.
